


Against the odds

by AngelofDarkness1605



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelofDarkness1605/pseuds/AngelofDarkness1605
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Belle French insists on having dinner with him, Mr. Gold is completely out of his depth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mr. Gold isn’t a betting man, painstakingly assessing each risk that presents itself to him. That’s why he – while carefully maintaining his indifferent expression – is immediately on his guard when the town’s librarian slides opposite him in his usual corner booth at Granny’s.

“Good evening, Mr. Gold,” she greets him pleasantly, looking at him with radiant eyes.

“Miss French,” he acknowledges her, keeping his voice perfectly neutral.

“It’s quite crowded in here and I noticed this seat is still free. Do you mind if I sit here with you?”

It can’t have escaped her attention that there aren’t any less seats available than usual at this time, and that no one ever,  _ever_ sits with him in the diner. Or anywhere, for that matter.

Mr. Gold raises a sarcastic eyebrow, letting her know that he’s aware that her reasoning is a pretense – an obvious one, at that.

“By all means,” he drawls, gesturing at the seat she’s already occupying.

She wants something from him; otherwise she would never do something so inane. After all, he gets only approached by people who require something from him.

He wouldn’t want any of them to invade his meal, but he indulges Belle French. Only _she_ would come to ask a favor from him in public, just like she is the only one to talk to him when he comes to collect rent, and even when they happen to run into each other in town.

Mr. Gold is very much aware that every pair of eyes in the diner is on them, particularly those of Mrs. Lucas herself when she comes to take the order of the woman sitting opposite him.

If the increased attention is making him somewhat uncomfortable, the landlord doesn’t show it.

He isn’t surprised in the slightest when she doesn’t immediately ask whatever it is she wants from him. Belle French has an uncanny talent for small talk, inquiring whether he has acquired any antique books lately.

She doesn’t change the topic when her burger and ice tea arrive. Before he knows it, they’re discussing Jane Eyre while having dinner together.

Although the request he expects doesn’t come, Mr. Gold gradually relaxes despite himself. Her company turns out to be so lovely that he even loses awareness of the ever increasing attention that’s bestowed upon them by the rest of the patrons.

It seems like barely any time has passed when they start on their deserts. Yet more so than before, his gaze is drawn to her as she devours her ice cream. There’s something strangely alluring about watching her like this and Mr. Gold pointedly focuses on his own ice cream, on the coldness of it, in response.

Having a meal at Granny’s is usually a tedious affair, but time passes more quickly than it has any right to with Belle French opposite him.

The bill arrives and is paid much more quickly than he would like, and he is hardly aware of the uncharacteristically generous tip he leaves. His unexpected companion is all he has eyes for, smiling at him as if he isn’t the old town’s monster.

Then he’s clumsily helping her into her coat and then they’re outside, and he’s mentally scrambling for anything to do or say to prolong their unforeseen time together.

There has to be a way, surely, for isn’t this what other people do all the time?

Mr. Gold doesn’t have a clue, being thoroughly unfamiliar with such situations, her interest in his company – in  _him_ , apparently – just as mystifying as it is delightful.

“Would you like me to drive you home?” he asks, sudden inspiration striking.

He inwardly congratulates himself for his cleverness, at this possibility of spending more time with her without making it obvious - or at least, that’s what he hopes. At the same time, he despairs at the impulsiveness, at the  _boldness_ , that she causes.

He is quite certain that he can’t keep his disappointment from showing on his face when she shakes her head in response to his question.

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” she says, pointing at the library and the apartment above it, almost right across the street. “I live right there.”

“I see,” he replies, fighting for each bit of indifference in his voice and inwardly cursing his own stupidity.  _Of course_ she lives there – he  _knows_ that. He collects rent there each month, after all. “Then I thank you for your delightful company and wish you a good night, Miss French.”

It’s probably for the best anyway to leave it at this. He has had the best evening he has had in decades; wanting more will only lead to rejection and regret – it always does.

But she doesn’t head for her apartment. Instead, she remains standing right in front of him, almost as if she’s waiting for something.

He searches his brain, wondering whether there’s something he’s supposed to say or do now, whether there’s an etiquette of sorts for situations like these.

“I enjoyed having a meal with you,” she says, preventing him from making another vain effort at understanding how a man might communicate with a woman who he likes more than he should. “Maybe we can have dinner again some time?”

His fear that his ears are deceiving him leaves him thanks to the hopeful look in her eyes and the affectionate smile on her lips. Even he can’t mistake that for anything else.

“I would like that,” he says, hoping that she isn’t as aware of the tremble in his voice as he is himself, even while he wonders whether this means that she’s asking him out on a  _date._  “I would like that very much.”

“Good. I would like that very much as well.”

He’s taken aback by the longing expression on her face to the extent that he notices that she has moved towards him only when she has stepped right into his personal space already. His heart is doing very strange and potentially worrying things in his chest in reaction.

“I don’t want to say goodbye to you just yet, Mr. Gold.”

Much as he’d like to tell her that the same goes for him, no such words come from his lips when she leans in to him, bringing her face yet closer to his.

“What are you doing?!” he rasps, certain that it can’t possibly be what it looks like in his biased perception.

“I think you know exactly what I’m doing,” she whispers, her words caressing him. “The question is, would you like me to?”

Belle French has enchanted him, there is no doubt about it. But she can’t possibly experience the same need that’s taking over him.

And yet, Mr. Gold foregoes all his usual carefulness and rationality with a single breathless word.

“ _Yes.”_

She angles her head and closes the final distance between them, pressing her mouth to his. His eyes closing out of sheer shock, a choked sound escapes him as he struggles for comprehension in the back of his mind, all of his conscious awareness focused on her.

Mr. Gold may have considered himself alive before then, but only when Belle kisses him it’s like he  _lives_ , his world going from black and white to an explosion of color in half a second.

His senses are flooded with the sensations of the pressure of her lips against his, their bumping noses and their mingled breath. That single moment of heat and acceptance would never have lasted long enough, but to his disappointment it’s really only a few seconds before she pulls back.

There’s no time to develop the thought that this is the only possible outcome, that there’s no way that she can kiss him and  _like_ it.

His expression must have shown his longing rather than his bewilderment, for Belle brings her lips back to his, kissing him more firmly this time. She sighs against his lips, and all Mr. Gold can do is stand there and enjoy it while it lasts.

They remain like that for much longer than before, each shared heartbeat worth more than any of the items in his shop, but it still isn’t enough.

When she pulls back again, he goes after her in an intuitive urge he didn’t know he had. Stupidly, clumsily, he slants his lips over hers, needing her like he never needed anything.

He swallows her cry of surprise, finding her mouth open beneath his own, getting his first, unintentional taste of her. The cane he’s still holding by sheer force of habit, his only connection to reality, clatters to the ground.

Dismayed by what instinct drove him to do, Mr. Gold breaks the kiss, mentally searching for words that might suffice to apologize, or at least explain why he threw himself at her like that.

Before he can come up with anything, she follows him backwards, locking her arms around his neck and crushing her mouth against his. Her tongue delves between his lips and her hands take hold of his hair, pulling him into consuming her.

Her chest is pressed firmly against his own, hers heaving just like his own. He can taste and smell her,  _feel_ her, and he’s lost.

There’s nothing but heat and wetness, all of his senses overloading. He doesn’t understand what’s pulling him to her like this, doesn’t recognize it, but he eagerly gives into it, surrendering to this unfamiliar sensations – to  _her_.

He reacts to her with body and soul, with affection and longing and… more.

To his horror, he’s hardening against her stomach. Despite the layers of clothing between them, there’s no way she can’t feel it… after all, he can feel her yielding softness well enough.

But she keeps kissing him with unequaled vigor, moaning into his mouth as she tightens her hold on him, pulling him yet closer towards her.

Their kiss continues to be all ragged breath and clashing teeth and angles that don’t entirely work, his arms limply at his side because he wouldn’t know what to do with them, but it’s  _perfect_  and he wants it to never end and…

It takes a while before he notices it over the pounding of his heart, the blood rushing in his ears and his harsh grunts, but eventually the noise in the background becomes undeniable.

Mr. Gold wants to ignore it, to shut the rest of the world out in order to keep his focus on Belle and the kiss they share. But there’s only one more moment of bliss before she pulls back and looks at him with a broad smile on her face, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed spectacularly.

That’s when reality comes crashing down after all, turning the dream cruelly into a nightmare.

The noise he vaguely heard turns out to be voices… a whole lot of them. Belle’s cheeks redden further when she looks at a point over his shoulder. He turns around, following her gaze, and his joy is immediately replaced by dread.

There are cheers and catcalls, and also what appears to be booing, coming from the direction of Granny’s, where he finds most of the patrons standing on the porch or even hanging from the windows, Mrs. Lucas herself among them.

All of them are looking at Belle and him, although gawking is probably a more accurate term. Yet more heat rushes to his cheek as well – he may not entirely comprehend what just happened between the two of them, but  _this_  is very clear. Belle French must possess magic indeed to drive him to such distractions right in the busiest, most public part of town.

She looks chagrined and Mr. Gold can only hope that it’s due to their unwelcome audience rather than because of what she just shared with him.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, sister!” Leroy’s voice booms among the cacophony of noise of the rest of the crowd. “You’re cheating the game!”

“Yes Belle, this isn’t fair,” Miss Lucas adds, although she looks more amused than anything else.

“You just cost me ten bucks!” Miss Boyd yells, not sounding quite so forgiving.

Mr. Gold looks back at Belle, and not just because he looks at no one rather than her.

“What are they talking about?” he asks, yet more confused by the reactions of the townspeople than the fact that they just kissed several times in the first place.

She just stares at him, looking mortified in a way she didn’t a moment ago.

“You rigged the bet, Belle,” Dr. Whale yells angrily. “I want my money back. I wouldn’t have bet against you if I had known that you’d go after him yourself!”

“Did you do this because of a  _bet_?” Mr. Gold asks her, hating how vulnerable he sounds, how  _hurt_.

“No!” she cries out, reaching for his hand.

“There was a bet that involved kissing me,” he concludes coldly, withdrawing his hand before she can take it, the stone that is his already shriveled heart sinking to the pit of his stomach.

“There was a bet,” she admits, avoiding his gaze, “but…”

“You took the bet that you could get me to kiss you.”

“ _No!_ ” she cries out. Her voice is just as appalled as her expression, but he isn’t fooled. “There was a bet and I should have told you about it, but it isn’t what you think.”

“Of course not,” he hisses, bitterness he had sworn never to experience again washing over him.

“Please, Mr. Gold, let me explain!”

“I’ve heard more than enough,” he brings out through gritted teeth.

For just a moment, he is tempted to hear her out, to hold on to the hope that this isn’t what it must be after all.

But her pleading gaze doesn’t affect him as much as the taunting noise coming from the crowd behind them does – the very crowd that hangs on to every word they say and every movement they make.

Reminding himself that she’s part of this humiliating scheme one way or another, Mr. Gold turns around abruptly and walks away with all the dignity he can muster.

He doesn’t say another word to her and intends to never do so again.

Pointedly ignoring everyone and everything, most of all the insistent shouts of Miss French herself, he forces himself to take measured and even steps to his car, his shoulders squared and his head held high – anything to prevent anyone from seeing, especially  _her,_ how thoroughly humiliated he is by her trick, how  _foolish_ he was to believe for only a moment that she could genuinely be interested in him.

His posture may be controlled, but there’s no holding back the stubborn tears that trail hotly down his cheeks. They aren’t caused by the fact that he’ll be the laughing stock of the entire town for years to come, or even because he has been manipulated by the only person who he implicitly trusted not to betray him like this.

No, Mr. Gold is devastated most of all because he has been granted his first and also his very last taste of paradise, a priceless and invaluable lie that he’ll never be able to experience again.


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of his doorbell is unfamiliar to the extent that Mr. Gold doesn’t recognize it at first. But as the bell rings again, and again, there’s no escaping that there’s someone at the door of his home for the first time since he can remember.

He doesn’t have a clue who might be there, but he doesn’t want to see anyone – especially not after what just happened. After the very public humiliation he just suffered, it could be just about anyone on his porch hoping to have some more amusement at his expense.

Sitting in the dark in the back of his living room, Mr. Gold closes his eyes firmly and takes another sip of scotch, knowing that no one can see him from outside.

“I want to talk to you,” an awfully familiar voice calls out from the other side of his front door.

He tenses with the knowledge that none other than Belle French herself is there. The sound of the bell ringing again goes straight to his bruised heart. It’s not enough apparently that she did what she just did – whatever her plans may be this time, she wants to make it worse.

“I know you’re in there, Mr. Gold. Your car is in the driveway. Please, let me talk to you. Let me  _explain._ ”

He grinds his teeth, snarling at his half empty glass, wishing that everything that just happened would just  _go away_.

“I won’t leave until I’ve talked to you. Please, give me ten minutes to explain myself.”

Telling himself that there’s no getting away from this and that he might as well get over with it as quickly as possible, he gets up and heads for the hallway. He blames the shakiness of his legs on the few sips of alcohol he’s had – so far – rather than the aftermath of the kisses that shook his world upside down.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” he snarls when he throws the door open, revealing a forlorn looking Belle French.

Face to face with her once more after all, Mr. Gold is determined to wrap himself in anger, his last means of protection.

“You’ve been crying,” she breathes, intently looking at him with those shockingly blue eyes that might as well be the death of him one day.

He inwardly groans at her observation. His grief of losing her – of never really having been with her to begin with, more accurately - is already rooted so deep within him that evidence of that sorrow extends to his exterior without him realizing it.

Just because he refuses to believe that her kisses and subsequent betrayal led him to such a low, doesn’t mean it didn’t actually happen.

But then he takes a first proper look at her, and he forgets about his increased mortification of being seen by her like this.

“You’ve been crying as well,” he murmurs, finding her cheeks glistening in the streetlight.

“I feel so awful about this,” she says, so distressed that he doesn’t remind her that none of this would have happened if it wouldn’t have been for her. “I understand that you hate me for what I did. But please, at least let me tell you what truly happened. I don’t want you to think that all of this was because of that stupid bet.”

“Come in,” he says quietly, opening the door further in invitation.

Mr. Gold tells himself that he’s naive, that he’s  _stupid_ , for allowing her to spin yet more of her lies. She has hurt him more than enough as it is – and here he is, giving her free access to his heart once more.

But seeing her like this, his admittedly subjective mind can’t define her sadness as anything but sincere.

Mr. Gold lingers undecidedly in the hallway, not knowing whether he should invite her to sit down and offer her a drink… whether she would  _want_ to after the way he just yelled at her, after the accusations he made in town.

He was more than prepared to lash out at her, to try to find a way to hurt her like she has wounded him. But now that that doesn’t apply any longer, at least not for the time being, he doesn’t know what to do instead.

“It started half an hour or so before you arrived at Granny’s,” she says hurriedly when they’re still standing in the middle of the hallway. “People were talking about you, about your… love life. It was said that no one would voluntarily kiss you. I told them it was a cruel thing to say, and unjustified at that.”

“Why would you say that?”

He doesn’t understand why she would defend him like that - and why it makes him feel strangely happy.

“Because I didn’t like them talking about you like that, especially because you weren’t there yourself. But I fear I only made it worse. They came up with a ridiculous bet that no one would ever kiss you out of their free will and I… well, I bet against it just to shut them up.”

His shoulders sag upon hearing that the bet indeed wasn’t like what he thought, that the bet wasn’t about  _her_ kissing him. Her regret for the role she did play in the bet is almost tangible and he can’t help but forgive her for the part that she did have.

“That was shortly before you arrived at Granny’s yourself. You went to sit there in the corner, all on your own. After the conversation of the others, I realized you are always sitting without anyone else. I suppose the bet was at least good for one thing – making me see that you seem so… well, lonely.”

Any thought he may have had in response vanishes when she matter-of-factly takes one of his hands in her own. He almost snatches his arm back out of sheer shock, but he’s very glad that he managed to ignore that intuitive reflex when she holds his hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. The acceptance that the gesture implies is yet more pleasant than the physical contact itself.

“I’ve always enjoyed our conversations, Mr. Gold. It just never occurred to me to talk more often to you than we already did. I wish I had.”

She smiles questioningly at him, as if looking for confirmation, for  _forgiveness_ that she didn’t consider seeking his company more often.

“I very much enjoyed having dinner with you,” she continues. “In a way I didn’t think I would. Talking with you like that… it made me want to do more than talking. But I intended to tell you about the bet first. It wouldn’t be fair to you otherwise.”

She sighs, apologetic.

“It wasn’t fair to you the way it  _did_ turn out. But that’s why I asked you to go out again, so I could tell you about the bet before anything might happen between us… and to hopefully enjoy your company in a more private setting.”

She looks almost shy when she rubs her thumb against the back of his hand, the increased contact having him gasp in wonder and delight.

“I  _was_ going to tell you, Mr. Gold. But then you looked at me like that when we were outside after dinner, and…”

“Looked at you like what?” he all but stammers as she trails off, very curious indeed about what he accidentally must have done right for her to end up kissing him.

“Like… like I’m the most precious woman in the universe.”

 _You are_ , Mr. Gold finds himself thinking, but she continues talking before he might find the courage to actually put that into words.

“I forgot that there was a bet in the first place when you looked at me like that. And when we kissed… well, I forgot about everything else altogether.”

To his unspoken regret, she lets go of his hand. She reaches for her purse, taking something from it which turns out to be a large pile of rumpled bills.

“Two hundred and fifteen dollars,” she sighs. “They insisted I take it.”

“I see,” he grinds out, not seeing at all why she’s telling him this, why she reminds him of the bet that resulted in both one of the best and one of the worst moments of his life.

It’s incredible that his lack of a love life is worth so much to his fellow citizens… and yet so very, very little.

“I don’t want this money. But now that I have it, I suppose we might as well make good use of it together.” She looks intently at him, but he doesn’t understand the point that she’s making. “I’d love both of us to spend this by going out together, somewhere private… somewhere we can enjoy ourselves and  _kiss_ without prying eyes and interruptions.”

“ _Why?!”_ he blurts out, the prospect as inviting as it seems unbelievable.

“Because I’d really like to,” she simply says, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

“How can you want that with  _me_?”

"You’re asking me why I want to be with the man with whom I had the best conversation about literature I’ve ever had? Why I want to be with the man whose kisses make me feel…”

She pauses for a moment, as if searching for the most suitable word, and he holds his breath.

“…  _fantastic_.”

“I… I barely knew what I was doing,” he mutters, the revelation that she enjoyed his clumsy kisses so much more shocking than anything else.

“Neither did I, really. How about we just continue not knowing what we’re doing?”

Not waiting for an answer that he’s incapable of giving in his current state of bewilderment anyway, she ceremoniously piles the handful of bills and her purse on the cabinet next to them.

Once her hands are free, she purposefully steps towards him, sending panic and joy alike coursing through him.

“Better yet, how about we pretend for the time being that the past few hours didn’t happen? To start over again, in a way?”

Mr. Gold is hardly aware of the question, of the unequaled chance she is basically giving him, not when she closes the distance between their bodies. Numb as his mind might be, his hands find a place on her waist with only some reluctance. Only then, she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling herself against him.

His muscles are tense and he isn’t at ease at all. There are many reasons why he shouldn’t do this, most of them having nothing to do with the bet he has just learned the truth of.

But none of them matter all that much, his discomfort disappearing soon enough when she just stands there and embraces him, her body warm and so very soft against his own. When he relaxes ever so slightly, she further soothes him with gentle strokes of one of her hands on his back.

“Is it so impossible to believe that I want to get to know you better, Mr. Gold? That I want to be with you?”

There’s a moment of silent disbelief. Before he can answer her question with a heartfelt ‘yes’ after all, she shifts a little to rest her head on his shoulder, her face pressing lightly against his neck.

Mr. Gold can barely breathe, let alone speak or think, when she brushes her nose against the unexpectedly sensitive skin there. She draws an embarrassing groan from him… which in turn appears to cause a seemingly equally longing sound from her.

He doesn’t have the chance to consider anything when she proceeds to kiss and… _lick_ his throat and the side of his neck. Giving in to his desire and the woman who ruthlessly fuels it, he closes his eyes and allows himself to just enjoy it.

At one point Mr. Gold dares bringing one of his hands to her head, caressing her magnificent curls tenderly, the touch of the silken strands only enchanting him more.

There is no feeling of rejection when she pulls back eventually, her hands lingering on his chest. There simply is a warm, almost fuzzy happiness that’s he’s completely comfortable with, despite never having experienced it before.

Still, that peacefulness quickly turns into something quite different when she tilts her head in unspoken invitation.

Unwilling to resist the temptation, Mr. Gold slowly brings his face to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, exploring her like she just familiarized herself with him. He doesn’t advance nearly as quickly as she did however, the mere sensations of being so close to her nearly overwhelming.

She continues to touch him, her hands on his side and back both urging him on and grounding him somewhat, the solidness of her leaving no doubt that this is truly happening. That’s why he, heady as he is by the feeling and scent of her bare skin, remains somewhat focused at his first, tentative kiss there, brushing his lips against her as lightly as he can.

Still, he isn’t all that concentrated any longer when she sighs his name and grasps a handful of his hair, pulling his face closer to her. By then, there’s no more holding back the desire that has been brimming just below the surface ever since she kissed him for the first time.

She welcomes his gracelessly eager kisses against her neck with moans and ragged breath, her hand drawing similar reactions from him when she teases the back of his neck with her nails.

He wants it to go on forever, buried against her like this, accepted and  _wanted_. But even as she clings to him and sighs encouragements into his ear, he has to look at her face to make certain that she indeed wants this. Even now, he can’t entirely believe that she desires him the same way he has found himself needing her.

However, there’s no mistaking her approval, her  _excitement_ , when he manages to draw back ever so slightly to take in her expression. He could just look at her radiant eyes and her equally beautiful smile for a very long time, but his focus shifts to the remains of tears on her face.

He brushes the last of the salty liquid away with reverent fingers, shuddering when she does the same for him. It’s as if a weight has been taken from his shoulders, the previous burden all but unbearable but so familiar that he wasn’t aware any longer that it was there to begin with.

“I’d… I’d like that as well, miss French,” he says, finally reacting to what she told him earlier, while daringly cupping her cheeks between his hands. “To be with you. I’d like that.”

“Good,” she just says, the relief audible in that single word even to him undeniable.

“Thank you for coming back to explain… for coming back at all,” he continues, grasping this opportunity to apologize with both hands, unpleasant as it is. “I’m sorry for thinking so poorly of you.”

“I understand why you did. I’m sorry for not telling you about the bet sooner.”

“At least it got us here,” he mutters, awed.

“It did,” she says, smiling once more.

He is the one to initiate a kiss this time, slowly leaning in to her and experimentally angling his head. Mr. Gold may have had nothing but mostly chaste intentions, but those are out of the window when she deepens the kiss almost as soon as their lips meet.

The following onslaught of desire and  _need_ isn’t any more manageable than it was the previous time. Just like earlier that evening, he blindly gives in to it, surrendering to her and the incomprehensible ache that she stirs up within him.

He’s somewhat aware that they bump against the cabinet, rattling both the centuries old wood and the priceless antiques inside it, but the only sound that reaches his ears is her enthusiastic moan. Similarly, the feeling of her fingers digging into his shoulders and her welcoming mouth fused to his overtakes any pain he may have felt after slamming against the furniture.

It’s hardly surprising that his entire being reacts to her just like it did before, body and soul alike mindlessly seeking  _more._ This time, due to the intoxicating mix of affection and lust, Mr. Gold doesn’t realize that one particular part of him is making its interest in the proceedings explicitly known once more.

At least, he isn’t aware until she brushes her thigh against him in what surely can be only an accidental movement. The friction draws a shout from him, the sound turning into a whimper when she abruptly breaks away from him.

Trying to get his breathing and heartbeat somewhat under control while yet more redness rushes to his cheeks, Mr. Gold wonders just how much he has ruined whatever it was that was going on between them by losing control like this.

“Let’s get upstairs.”

He’s drunk on her to the extent that it takes a few long seconds before her words register, the suggestion completely unlike anything he was expecting.

“Upstairs?!” he echoes, beyond convinced that she can’t possibly be implying what he thinks she is.

“I suppose you have a bedroom there?” she clarifies, raising a meaningful eyebrow.

“I…”

His mind is telling him that this is is far too much and way too soon, but his treacherous lower half doesn’t share these reservations in the slightest.

“Just to get more comfortable,” she says, her smile all gentle enticement. The kindness in her eyes reminds him that there is nothing to be afraid of, that she doesn’t intend to cross boundaries he hasn’t even thought of yet. “Would you like us to?”

Earlier that evening, she asked him practically the same question. Right now, he’s as breathless and disbelieving as he was then. But unlike before, Mr. Gold is very much aware that he makes the best choice of his life when he intently whispers his reply to her.

“ _Yes_. _”_

“Let’s go then,” she says, beaming at him when she takes his hand in her own.

All bets are off as he eagerly follows Belle when she leads him upstairs, and Mr. Gold wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
